


Between Two Lungs

by thedeadparrot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers one of his own kinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Two Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) and the "breathplay" square. Much love to M and [](http://zulu.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://zulu.dreamwidth.org/)**zulu** for the betas.
> 
> XistentialAngst made some [lovely cover art](http://xistentialangst.tumblr.com/post/32311774710/between-two-lungs-by-thedeadparrot-rated-x) for this fic. Check it out!

They're hiding behind a stack of crates, just the two of them, waiting for the perfect opportunity to sneak into the warehouse's office. Sherlock takes a moment to assess the situation, his body tense and waiting. The two smugglers responsible for patrolling the warehouse are too busy with their own conversation, most likely to do with how the taller one is cheating the shorter one out of several million pounds per year. They're not going to notice two interlopers lurking in the shadows. Their attention is fixed on one another, not even flicking towards the opening and closing of the office door beyond them.

Adrenaline doesn't taste like anything in particular -- some bitterness, maybe, a dash salt -- but Sherlock craves it all the same. John's thigh is pressed against his own; his shoulder rubs Sherlock's bicep as he prepares his service pistol. John's hands are calm and confident on his weapon, moving with practiced ease. If Sherlock hadn't already known exactly how skilled a soldier John had been, he would have known right then.

The air smells of dead fish and London fog. Sherlock draws in slow breaths through his nose, tasting the layers and layers of scents, one on top of the other. They're as good as a map for identifying their location, the time of day, the weather, and the current toxicity of the water. The concrete was laid down in the late 70's, because there's a distinctive roughness to it. Aromas and textures link up in Sherlock's brain, and it is beautiful and oh so very perfect. The two smugglers duck out the large doors on the far side of the warehouse, to start some tedious altercation over their finances. The shorter of the two was going to win, quite obviously, because the scars on his arms indicated that he'd been fighting since primary school, and other man does not move with a similar awareness of his own body. But it's no matter, because once they are out of sight, they will provide a enough of a distraction to allow Sherlock and John to sneak into the office themselves.

It's tedious, the wait, and so Sherlock occupies himself with cataloging the various mice that are scampering over the floor and also the steady rhythm of John's breathing. It's still so strange, sharing this with someone else, but Sherlock has always prided himself on his adaptability. It makes no sense to cling to old conclusions when new evidence has been presented. It takes two and a half minutes for the fight to break out, and another excruciating minute for the rest of the gang to realize what's happening and to make the attempt to break it up. Not that they'll be entirely successful once they discover the reason behind the initial argument. In fact, Sherlock is fairly certain that they will join in. Once the office has emptied and all of the smugglers are out of sight, Sherlock tenses to leap forward from his hiding place. John grabs the knot of Sherlock's scarf before he can move, stopping him short.

For a moment, Sherlock cannot breathe.

For a moment, all he can feel is the tight pull of the fabric around his neck, the heat of John's fingers so close to his skin, the rush of his own blood in his arteries, his veins. There isn't enough pressure to _actually_ choke Sherlock. John's too careful for that. John's too careful for that, careful enough to have noticed the other man -- the final man -- as he was exiting the office, a tad slower than Sherlock predicted. Sherlock hadn't been counting properly. Sherlock had been distracted. _It was bound to happen eventually,_ the voice in his head that bears a rather strong resemblance to Mycroft says, _what with the way you like to run about._ Sherlock ignores it. Mycroft refuses to do anything that he hadn't already planned out twelve steps in advance, and where was the fun in that? Sherlock likes to teeter on that edge, where his mind has to run faster, has to fit all the pieces together as the clock ticks down.

John lets go of Sherlock's scarf once the last man disappears from view, and they sneak into the office together, John watching their backs as Sherlock moves forward. They can hear the sounds of shouting as they dig through the office's files. Sherlock absently notes that the smaller man is winning, as predicted. The shipping manifests they find are detailed and incriminating enough that they can close the case that night, which is something of a disappointment, since Sherlock had hoped that it would take a few more days to get to the bottom of it. The days between cases are the worst, after all. John, on the other hand, seems pleased, but then again, he does like to pretend that he likes the quiet, calm days the best.

When they get back to 221B, John goes straight back to his room. Sherlock collapses onto the nearest couch. He knows the exact moment John falls asleep, fifteen minutes after he hears the door of John's room slide shut. Sherlock himself stays up long into the night, still restless, which is unusual after a case. It usually takes a day or so for him to become well and truly bored again.

His mind won't let go of the memory of John's hand on his scarf. It startled him, made his heart race faster, his eyes widen. He can't stop himself from wondering what it would have been like if John hadn't let go, if John had instead tightened his hold until Sherlock could only barely breathe. He can imagine it all quite vividly, from the smell of John's breath to the sound of fabric being dragged over skin. Nothing at all like it was with the Chinese gangsters, all vicious struggle and rough violence. It would be something slower and more deliberate, an experiment in the biological functions of Sherlock's body. It keeps Sherlock up all night, that same scene playing over and over again in his brain, no matter how many patches he slaps on his arm, no matter how many Wikipedia articles he corrects, no matter what he does to the eyeballs in his fridge.

One of the problems with Sherlock, Mummy always used to say, was that he had quite the active imagination.

* * *

Unlike many of Sherlock's thoughts, this one lingers.

It lingers with a stubbornness that mimics the mulish look that John gets when he's about to make some futile stand against one of Sherlock's peculiarities. It lingers while he's playing his violin, while he's working over a crime scene, while John is in the kitchen making the same exact sandwich he makes every single day for lunch. Once, as a child, Sherlock held his breath for an entire minute on a dare from his brother. It had been difficult, he remembers, the way he'd expected it to be, his body struggling against his mind. After the minute was over and Mycroft paid him his five pounds, Sherlock sat still on his bed in his room for a full ten minutes, luxuriating in the rise and fall of his lungs, the rush of oxygen through his arteries. He hadn't wanted to try it again afterwards, but he spends an inordinately large amount of time remembering it these days. The way his head had felt light, almost quiet, while he pressed his lips together. The way he could almost feel connected to every part of his body, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

Sherlock supposes that he should do some experimentation first, before he draws any hard conclusions. One morning, while John is working at the clinic and there aren't any cases to occupy Sherlock's mind, Sherlock steals some of John's medical tape and presses a long, wide piece of it over his mouth. With his right hand, he holds his nose shut.

The experience is thoroughly disappointing. Mostly, it's uncomfortable and rather boring, though he does get some good data on his body's reaction to asphyxiation.

"Why have you taped your mouth shut?" John asks, somewhat stupidly, when he gets home that night. The bags under his eyes are deeper than normal. That, along with his haunted expression means he had to hand out several unpleasant diagnoses today. At least one of cancer.

_Measuring the amount of airflow that passes through the human nose. SH,_ Sherlock texts him from where he's laying down on the couch. He doesn't bother taking the tape off. It's really quite fascinating, not being able to breathe through the mouth. It changes one's whole perspective.

John snorts with restrained laughter, his brow furrowing slightly. "Well," he says. "I think I like you better this way." He says it like it's a joke, his mouth curling up at one corner, slight and teasing. He says it like it's something Sherlock's not meant to take seriously. Sherlock can see right through that, of course. John likes Sherlock with his mouth taped shut, unable to speak. Even more than that, from the dilation of John's pupils, Sherlock can see that John likes the thought of doing it to him.

It feels like a lit match underneath Sherlock's skin. He can imagine John pinching Sherlock's nose, _forcing_ him not to breathe. John would be gentle about it, careful in that steady way of his, but Sherlock still wouldn't have any say in the matter. Sherlock would still be putting his life in John's hands. Perhaps John would speak to him the entire way through, his voice a rougher, darker version of the one he uses to calm anxious patients, though it would be entirely unnecessary to soothe Sherlock through such an experience. Sherlock would want it, after all, much in the same way he wants a new dead body to inspect, a new case to solve, a new problem to occupy his mind. He'd be hungry for it, John's hands on his body, John's hands against his skin. Sherlock ruthlessly cuts that line of thinking short.

_Fetch me my laptop. SH,_ Sherlock texts John, because he's uncertain of his own reaction, of the sudden, strange powerlessness he feels. He wants confirmation that he can still make John jump at his command. It is unsettling, this feeling. He is not used to doubting himself.

John ignores the text for a full five minutes before huffing out a sigh and pulling his phone from his pocket. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why," he says as he pulls himself out of his chair, leaning heavily on his cane.

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. John gives in, rolling his eyes as he heads towards Sherlock's bedroom. He comes back a minute later with Sherlock's laptop tucked underneath his arm. He hands it over to Sherlock without comment before settling down in his chair again with the evening paper.

Sherlock is about to say, "You shouldn't have taken so long," because it usually only takes John twenty-five seconds even when he's limping, but then he remembers the tape still affixed to his lips and he thinks of the look in John's eyes when he said he liked Sherlock better this way. He leaves the tape where it is and keeps his mouth shut.

* * *

"Why'd you really do it?" John asks over dinner, some days later. They're in some tiny fish and chips shop that John likes; he insists it has the best you can find in London. Sherlock is fairly certain that it's just residual homesickness from eating too many MREs while in Afghanistan and not an actual attachment to the place.

There were any number of things John could be referring to. John spends an inordinately large amount of time asking Sherlock why he does _anything_. "Do what?" Sherlock asks. Under the florescent lights, John looks flattened out, too pale. He's losing his tan now. Too many days back in London. Too many days spent inside. Sherlock wants to trace the fading rings around John's wrists with his teeth, even though it's foolish to think they'd feel any different from the skin on any other part of John's body.

"Why'd you really tape your mouth shut?" John asks. He takes a bite of one of his chips, chewing with his mouth closed.

"I already told you that," Sherlock says, irritated. He hates having to repeat himself, even for John. He leans back in his own chair (a favorite of a man who liked to keep keys and coins in his back pocket, judging by the scratches on the seat), giving John his most unnervingly level look.

John is not convinced. A brief frown crosses his face. "You've been more of a prat than usual since then," he says. "Ever since that day."

Sherlock mentally reviews the events of the past few days. There was the incident where he demanded that John hunt down and kill that spider in his bedroom. And the time when he asked to go into the sewers to find some trace of the missing girl while Sherlock interviewed some of the suspects. And that whole business where he yelled at John for incorrectly deducing just how much sugar Sherlock wanted in his tea. Sherlock finds it troubling, that he hadn't realized it. He ought to have been able to see the pattern in his own behavior for himself or even the root of it. John's expression is soft, quietly concerned, and Sherlock decides right then to tell John the truth. If John is not inclined towards such things (though Sherlock finds this unlikely), he will be so unsettled by Sherlock's answer that he will let the subject drop. If he is, well, then Sherlock could press him until he makes his own interest known. "Before I was measuring the airflow through my nostrils, I was testing my body's reaction to asphyxiation," Sherlock says. He keeps a close eye on John's reaction.

John asks, "What? By yourself?" His face is etched with worry, and Sherlock is selfishly glad of the reminder that John Watson cares whether Sherlock lives or dies. There are so very many other people in London, in the world, who John could care about as well. None of them quite like Sherlock, of course, but no one else seems to care that their loved ones are all so dull.

"Yes," Sherlock says.

Another furrowed brow. "You-- That isn't exactly safe." John seems to be at a loss for words, but his eyes are fixed on Sherlock's face, not even looking away for a second.

Sherlock says, "Are you offering to join me next time?"

"Yes," John says without hesitation. It irritates Sherlock sometimes how John can be so damned earnest, so very _patient_ with Sherlock. Everyone else, all those stupid little people, are so taken by it, by John's wide, honest face, by John's sad little smile. Sherlock finds it galling that _he_ might be vulnerable to all of John's obfuscating niceness as well. John continues, "I am a doctor, you know."

Sherlock does know it, of course, knows it in the careful way John holds his butter knife, knows it in the faint smell of anti-septic that always lingers around John's collar, knows it in the roll of medical gauze John keeps in his jacket pockets. "Tonight, then," Sherlock says, as off-hand as possible, not really phrasing it as a question.

It takes John a moment to respond. "All right," he says finally, though there's still a bit of hesitation that lingers around his jaw, his eyes.

Sherlock lets out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Not that he had been worried. He knows John better than that.

* * *

When they get back to the flat, Sherlock spins on his heel and says, "Let's get on with it, then?" as John is removing his coat. They're well past the point where John expects anything like politeness or courtesy, so Sherlock doesn't bother. He watches John for the next move, the next indication of what they should do. This is all new to him, after all; he has no prior data to work with.

"Yeah," John says, pulling his arm gingerly out of the last, stubborn sleeve. "All right." And then he stands up on his tip-toes and kisses Sherlock, square on the lips, right in the middle of their living room.

It always startles Sherlock, how _warm_ living human skin is, how vivid and real it feels against his own. John's lips are chapped, dry, and he still smells like chip grease and London streets. Kissing is another one of those tedious things people do that Sherlock doesn't really understand, but he's always liked John's mouth, and where it's pressed up against Sherlock's, it's almost pleasant. Sherlock parts his lips, and John slides a tongue in, thick and wet and surprisingly... distracting.

Then there's a hand on Sherlock's throat, and he manages to suck in a rough breath through his nose before the fingers tighten, cutting off the rest of Sherlock's oxygen. For a brief moment, Sherlock's mind goes quiet, and then Sherlock realizes he is hard, achingly, painfully so. He can't breathe, which was the whole point of the exercise after all, but he still feels something like shock, like panic. John could kill him like this, with all of the cells in Sherlock's brain slowly starving, and Sherlock would let him. Sherlock would let him, because he needs more than this, needs his body and his mind to go quiet and still under someone else's hands. He needs and needs and needs, needs so much he feels as though he's being swallowed up by it, and--

And then John's grip lightens. "How was that?" John asks as Sherlock takes deep heaving gasps of air. "Was that-- was that what you wanted?"

"Again," Sherlock says, between breaths. John's pupils are blown wide, and he's staring at Sherlock with all of the intensity of the surgeon he is. Sherlock's never cared much about what he looks like most days, and he especially doesn't care _now_ , doesn't care about anything besides the rough pads of John's fingers against this neck, doesn't care about anything besides getting more of John's skin.

John could cut Sherlock open and Sherlock would ask him for more.

"Pushy, aren't you?" John says. He smiles, just for a moment, a flash passing over his face. Sherlock wants to taste it. He doesn't get a chance; John's tightening his hand again. Marginally harder this time, and the rush comes quicker, sharper.

Then John's free hand is on Sherlock's fly, and Sherlock has to fight to stay still, to make sure he doesn't do anything that might do permanent damage. He wants to swallow, wants to force John's hand to move faster, wants _John_ , all of him, every ugly, imperfect part of him. But Sherlock can't move, not like this, can't do anything at all.

Not even think.

And then, Sherlock can breathe again and John's right hand is finally, finally inside Sherlock's pants and on Sherlock's cock. Right hand, non-dominant, probably not the one he wanks with, but there's no awkwardness to it so he's done this before to someone else, to someone who wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock's head is almost swimming with the rush of fresh oxygen, and a flash of sudden jealousy. "Come on," Sherlock snarls, his heart beating too hard and too quick in his chest. "Give me _more_."

John stops. "No," he says simply, his eyes darkening. Sherlock lets out a low hiss. His hands flex at his sides, and his hips jerk of their own accord. He's not accustomed to this lack of control over his own body, and it annoys him, frustrates him.

"John," he says, his voice breaking at the end. Every word he speaks makes his vocal chords vibrate against the V of John's forefinger and thumb. All he can hear is the London traffic and John's heavy breaths and the rush of blood in Sherlock's ears.

"I want to fuck you," John says. "That all right?" He makes it sound like a question, but it's not, not in the straight line of his mouth, the grim narrowing of his eyes.

"Please," Sherlock says. There's something about John's expression that reminds Sherlock of that night at the pool, hard and distant and untouchable. Sherlock wants to tear it off John's face, peel it off his skin like he peeled the semtex off John's body. He wants John's temper, bright and vicious and sharp, wants John's laugh, soft and warm and gentle.

John snorts. "Fine," he says. His hands move again, the left giving the head of Sherlock's cock a vicious squeeze as the right clamps down on Sherlock's windpipe. It's almost perfect.

It only takes five jerks of John's hand before Sherlock comes soundlessly. His vision goes white as his knees collapse beneath him. John doesn't stagger even slightly as he catches him. He lets go of Sherlock's throat as soon Sherlock comes. The area where his hand was feels naked, bare.

"Is that enough data for your experiment?" John asks, once he's deposited Sherlock onto the nearest sofa. He rubs his forehead, a clear sign that he's annoyed and frustrated. There's a distinctive bulge in his jeans. Sherlock wants to put his mouth on it, to leave a dark spot on it with his saliva, to taste the rough denim with his tongue.

"Don't be thick," Sherlock says. His body feels loose and unwound from orgasm, and the cobwebs of his mind have been pulled away. It would so very easy to let himself sprawl over the couch, but he thinks that John might take issue with it. It's always so difficult, when everyone else's minds work so very slowly. He slides off the sofa and onto his knees. "I want you to fuck my mouth."

Sherlock watches John swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing, and there's really no point in John hesitating, because they both know he would never give up on this opportunity. Sherlock imagines what John's skin must taste like, sweat and London air and the lingering scent of hospitals. If John were closer, Sherlock would reach underneath the hem of John's jumper, run his fingers over the ridges of John's spine. He wants to learn all of John's scars by touch.

Then John's walking up to him, John's grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's hair, wrenching Sherlock's head back so that Sherlock has to meet his eyes. Not that Sherlock was planning on backing down from a challenge like that. "Okay," John says, and with that bit of permission, Sherlock lunges forward. His fingers scrabble over the fly of John's jeans, peeling it open and tugging his boxers aside so that he can get his lips on the hard curve of John's cock.

It tastes like salt and skin, like John, and there's something about it that crowds everything out of Sherlock's mind, leaving him in this moment, with this messy tangle of sensations. John uses the hand in Sherlock's hair to push Sherlock's head down further, so that Sherlock has to open his mouth wide and swallow John's cock down. Sherlock's prepared for it. It doesn't trigger his gag reflex, but it does make it hard to breathe, and once again his mind goes fuzzy from the lack of oxygen.

It is always so very busy in Sherlock's head, so very full of things -- all of them useful, of course -- but he likes it here too, where his mind has been swept clean, a blank slate on which he write new thoughts, new ideas. There is any easy rhythm to John's hips as John's hands hold Sherlock's head steady. John is not too careful, though, and Sherlock doesn't want him to be. Sherlock just focuses on keeping his mouth open so that he can _take_ it, everything that John is giving him. Sherlock closes his eyes, adds in the tiniest scrape of teeth, and John makes a soft sound at the back of his throat. Sherlock wants more -- he always wants more of John. He just takes and takes and until he's certain John won't give him any more. But John does anyway. Sherlock wants to know John's limits, whether he even has any when it comes to Sherlock, but Sherlock knows better than anyone how very fragile the connections between human beings are. How very fragile his connection with John is.

When John comes, Sherlock swallows greedily, his hands tightening on John's hips. John's eyes are closed, his head tilted back, and Sherlock wants to lick the line of his neck. He resists the urge, because John is frowning again, quietly upset. "Done?" John asks. His whole body seems to sag, and he drops himself onto his favorite armchair, doing up the fly of his jeans so that he'll look acceptable if Mrs. Hudson decides to drop in on them.

There is a wet, sticky spot on the front of Sherlock's own trousers that will be uncomfortable in about another ten minutes, but until then, he is content to sprawl on the sofa. "Yes, that's enough for now," Sherlock says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand; sex is always so messy. John's face twists, a sudden shift of his features, and Sherlock can see where this conversation is going before it even happens. He says, "Oh, stop trying to read into things that aren't there."

"No," John says, his voice quiet and cold. "No, I get it." He stands up, turns away. "I'll leave you to it then."

His hands are clenched into fists and his mouth is slanting downward in one corner and he keeps glancing at the door to their flat, and Sherlock can see how very close John is to making a really rather stupid decision. "John," Sherlock says, "You aren't _listening_."

John shakes his head and glances at the ceiling for a moment. "Of course I'm not," he says. "Listening to you is how I ended up here in the first place."

"Stop pretending to be duller than you are," Sherlock snaps. "It doesn't suit you." John is standing withing reach, so close Sherlock merely needs to reach out to touch the rough skin of John's hands, and Sherlock has never been more aware of the effort it takes to not act on his impulses.

"All right, explain it to me," John says. He looks back at Sherlock, folding his arms across his chest.

The words feel imperfect on Sherlock's tongue, and he wishes once again that it wasn't so _necessary_ to explain everything to everyone all the time. "You're the only one," Sherlock says, and he craves that whiteness behind his eyelids once again. "It only works when it's you." If John leaves now, he won't be coming back, Sherlock is certain, because sex is messy in more ways than one. John does not make idle threats.

Confusion crosses John's face for a moment before he barks out a laugh. "You really are a piece of work," he says. He flops back down into his armchair, his hands rubbing his face in a clear sign of frustration.

"You can't afford to live in London by yourself," Sherlock says, because it seems like a good time to remind John of all the reasons why he can't leave, all the reasons why he should keep Sherlock around.

"I know that," John says.

"Your health has been steadily improving since you moved in," Sherlock points out.

"That is true." Some of the tension leaves the corners of John's eyes, but Sherlock knows he hasn't won yet.

He continues, because really, people can be so picky about the evidence you provide them. "You would go mad from boredom without the cases I take you on."

John draws his eyebrows together. "You're probably projecting on that one," he says.

"And I've been told that I give fantastic blowjobs." Sherlock licks his lips, just to make a point, and he likes the way John's eyes fix on his tongue.

John says, "Yes, well. They weren't lying about that."

"Therefore, your best course of action would be to remain here, for the time being at least," Sherlock says, refusing to pay attention to the tight twisting feeling in his chest. John, for all his slowness, is not a complete fool. He will listen to reason.

John lips twitch into a grin before he breaks out into full-fledged laughter. "I'm not going anywhere," he says between giggles. His eyes are bright, warm, almost indulgent, and Sherlock feels pleased with himself though he doesn't entirely know why.

"Of course you're not," Sherlock says. "I just told you that." Despite his protestations, Sherlock has become used to the way John likes to state the obvious.

"You want me to stay," John says. "You're a bloody idiot and you can't ask me to do anything without being insulting, and you've just tried to logic me into staying with you." He's nearly doubled over now, mirth written on every line of his body, and a pleasant warm feeling chases itself up Sherlock's spine.

"Naturally," Sherlock says. John moves to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa, his shoulder rubbing against Sherlock's. The smile hasn't left his face.

John shakes his head. "You could have just said," He places a hand on Sherlock's face, sliding his thumb along the line of Sherlock's cheekbone. It feels, strangely, unsettlingly intimate in ways that Sherlock has not considered before.

He closes his eyes, because it is easier to focus on a sensation when not being distracted by external stimuli. "I didn't have to, did I?" he asks. He thinks, somewhat foolishly, of next time and the time after that, because John is here, John is touching him, and John is staying. Sherlock couldn't have imagined a better outcome, not even if Mycroft had planned it.

John kisses him again, his thumb drifting down to press lightly on the pulse point of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock shivers, despite himself. "No," John says. "I guess you didn't."

FIN.


End file.
